


Right Now

by Nishitzu_Hayes



Category: Crysis Series (Video Games)
Genre: After the beginning of Crysis 3, Canon Compliant, Guilt, Loss of someone loved, M/M, Mourning, Nightmares, Nostalgia, Panic Attacks, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prophet deserver some loving, Remorse, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, There is a tiny bit of plot though, except for the porn, i ship them so much, not in a fixed moment in the timeline of the game though, they deserve rest, why can't they be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:54:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29263872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nishitzu_Hayes/pseuds/Nishitzu_Hayes
Summary: «Nomad! Psycho!» Prophet wakes with a start.“I call your names but you're not around”._____________________________________________________________________________________________Even a post human warrior has to come face to face with the weight of his sacrifices, eventually; there is no avoiding reality forever.He has to face loss, and, even though he is more alien the human nowadays, Prophet, deep down, knows that he can still feel.He knows that he can still love.And it hurts like hell.In the end, Prophet wishes that it could all be a bad dream, a nightmare that he could wake up from and forget about it.I'm afraid, it's not so simple.
Relationships: Jake "Nomad" Dunn/Michael "Psycho" Sykes, Laurence "Prophet" Barnes/Jake "Nomad" Dunn, Laurence "Prophet" Barnes/Jake "Nomad" Dunn/Michael "Psycho" Sykes, Laurence "Prophet" Barnes/Michael “Psycho” Sykes





	Right Now

«Nomad! Psycho!» Prophet wakes with a start, shouting, voice cracking over the familiar syllables of his companions’ names, knot forming in his chest; he sits hastily, trying to regain his bearings, breath coming in short, painful gasps, his throat constricted by an invisible vice.   
  
Where is this place?   
  
His mind reels, unable to register his surroundings in the semi darkness, shadows barely illuminated by a sliver of moonlight coming through a single window in front of his makeshift sleeping cot; there is nothing he can discern, hiding in the deep black, that he can use to anchor himself to the now and here.   
  
He stands from the thin camping mattress he was lying on moments before, arms stretching out to try and at least _feel_. In vain, he moves his open palms around him.   
  
_Nothing. Absolute absence.  
  
_ The nightmare that woke him still clings to the forefront of his mind, agitating his thoughts already in disarray, making it difficult to retain his otherwise steely control; he hates being so confused, so lost, but even for someone as highly trained and strong as him, there is only so much he can take before his mind suffers the consequences.   
  
Is he still in Lingshan?  
Is he still in New York?   
  
Worse…Is he still with C.E.L.L?!  
  
The more those questions swirl around inside his weakened mind, the more it is difficult to push back the images the nightmare had awoken, rousing them from the oblivion he had pushed them to, in the deepest recesses of his fractured mind.   
  
He had hoped to never see them again, more so if they presented so vividly.

_Nomad’s broken body lying lifeless on the hard, cold steel floor of the yacht bow.  
Psycho defeated expression as he had lifted their companion in his arms.   
  
What hurt the most was that, despite Prophet’s lies, Nomad had still wished to protect him; had wished to see him safe despite his burning disappointment.   
  
_Guilt rises in his throat, tasting like bile, bitter and acid, punching the little air he is managing to inhale from his lungs; it hurts like a bitch, because Prophet adored Nomad, still does, but he had still willingly lied, still willingly condemned him to death.   
  
He might as well have been the one to pull the trigger.   
The shadows close in on him, a cloak as heavy as it is suffocating, and the images go on, despite Prophet’s will to fight them; he tries to wrestle them into submission, but it’s too hard, as they are much too strong, and in the end, there is little to no energy left in him.   
  
_Oh, gods above, he is just so tired.  
  
But no, it’s Psycho he sees next, his expression as Prophet had announced him he was ready to still sacrifice more, if only it would give him a chance to defeat the Ceph; they had fought hard then, calling each other names, shouting at each other, punching and scuffling, before Psycho had huffed, tiredness and mourning flashing in his eyes briefly, the fight leaving him, his mouth open mid sentence but no voice coming.   
Defeated.  
Psycho had shaken his head then, turning to leave, and Prophet had not stopped him.   
  
_Prophet now wishes he had, because, he realizes, that moment was exactly the instant their relationship had shattered beyond repair.   
  
_Or so he had thought, and yet, Psycho again had proven him wrong, like many times before that one; that one fucking time in which that crazy, undisciplined, wild man had crossed C.E.L.L impenetrable surveillance network and their highly dangerous territory just to bring him back.  
Whether Psycho had done that for necessity or for his own need, Prophet had never inquired, too afraid to know the truth.   
  
But they had been distant, out of touch, fragmented; ad he had to watch as Psycho loved another. It shattered his non-existent heart to pieces, and reminded him starkly that, no matter what he had become outside, his deepest core was still, unmistakably human.   
  
_Remembering those moments is like being stabbed directly to the heart, and Prophet feels himself growing faint, head spinning from the lack of oxygen; when was it that he had stopped breathing and had gone into hyperventilation?   
He can’t recall, as he sinks to the floor, his knees hitting the floor painfully, head lolling forward, limbs trembling, way too feeble to catch his full bodyweight; he falls, and it is only then he realizes with a start that he hasn’t moved from his sleeping mattress.   
  
His consciousness comes back to him fast and hard then, slamming into him like a freight train, his mind clearing suddenly from the haze, and he finds himself sitting up abruptly for the second time that night: breath laboured, chest heaving, icy sweat clinging uncomfortably to his skin; while Prophet is desperately trying to understand what the fuck is going on with his own head, a voice rises in the deep darkness, originating from an indiscernible point to his left, distracting him from his elucubrations.   
  
«Are you ok, Prophet? Was it a…nightmare?» the tone is undeniably masculine, voice groggy from sleep but soft, understanding; the person falters for a moment, before speaking his mind fully, and while Prophet would usually be annoyed by those question, in that precise moment he finds them comforting.   
There is someone here, with him, although he still doesn’t know who it is.   
  
Before Prophet can ask exactly that, a shuffling noise echoes in the darkness, sounding like blankets being pushed to the side; then, more mussing, fabric rubbing against fabric, and the quiet sound of feet hitting a pavement.   
  
There is fumbling, a little stumbling in the near complete darkness, but Prophet can tell the other is coming closer; he feels an anticipation he knows he shouldn’t feel, but he can’t help himself, as deep down inside his core he just _knows_ who the other is going to be.   
  
A silhouette delineates in the sparce moonlight coming in through the window, and Prophet jumps to his feet, bewildered, eyes wide and tears forming, impossible to rein back; it just can’t be, he cannot be here…Prophet’s reasoning screeches to halt, as the person in front of him still steps closer and closer, hand reaching slowly as to not startle him, fingers brushing lightly against his right cheek, tips barely touching the skin.   
  
Prophet tries to control himself, but when the other exhales a worried whisper containing his name, Prophet lets go; he grabs the hand the other is still holding out and pulls him forward, towards his own body, arms ready to envelop the other’s familiar frame and to never let go.   
  
«Nomad» he whispers, in between them, his voice stumbling over the words «I’m so sorry» and while the other doesn’t know what Prophet is apologizing for, he says nothing, accepts the apology with a graceful small smile on his lips and lets himself be drawn into Prophet’s embrace, hands resting on his shoulders, bodies pressed together.   
  
They are face to face, now, as they are almost the same height, and yet they say nothing; few seconds pass, while they stare into each other’s eyes, intent in simply relishing in the closeness of their flesh, before Nomad reaches for Prophet’s cheek again, this time caressing it fully but delicately, and Prophet marvels at how Nomad is a beautiful contradiction: inflexible and disciplined on the field, and yet so fragile and caring in private.   
  
It’s a drug, Prophet thinks, as he grabs Nomad’s fingers and keeps them in place, squeezing them sightly; Nomad seems to understand him perfectly, because he whispers, «I’m here» and nothing else.   
  
Prophet draws a sharp breath, as the urge to kiss Nomad becomes almost impossible to suppress; he leans forward almost unconsciously, but manages to catch himself a breath away from Nomad’s now slightly parted lips.   
  
Nomads sustains Prophet’s gaze, steady brown irises boring into heated grey ones, pupils already dilated, skin boiling hot, before he closes the distance in between them and presses his lips against the other’s mouth; Prophet is caught off guard for about a heartbeat, before the sweet taste of those lips hits him, and he is reciprocating without remorse, kissing Nomad with a force that would break anyone else.   
  
Nomad, though, takes him elegantly, eagerly, mouth pliant underneath his, lips opening just at the right moment, so Prophet’s parched tongue can slip inside; Prophet laps at him, drinking from Nomad, and the aftertaste almost knocks him back down, legs almost giving out from the sheer relief.   
Oh, how he had wanted this, how much he had desired, had missed.   
  
They share few more open mouthed kisses, Prophet taking control, nipping at Nomad’s bottom lip, biting into it, sucking his tongue, claiming everything and anything, while they stumble down onto the thin sleeping mattress beneath their feet, Nomad removing his plain white nightshirt as they go; he is left bare chested, and Prophet stops for a second to admire the view, the sparkling moon rays making Nomad’s skin glisten of a silver glow that makes him almost ethereal.   
  
Anxiety rises in Prophet’s chest again at that sight, his brain thinking for a second that Nomad almost looks like a vision or a ghost, but he shuts out all those useless musings, and concentrates instead into savouring every bit on Nomad’s skin that is now exposed before him, ready for the taking: he leaves Nomad’s now swollen and abused lips in peace for a second, moving instead to mouth at his jaw, planting kisses along the line there, going down to reach the side of his neck; Nomad’s sensitive there, Prophet remembers, and the little gasps escaping from the other’s throat prove him right.

Nomad’s never been extremely vocal, but he lets out tiny mewls that ignites Prophet’s blood; he wants nothing more to appease his companion, to bring him pleasure, to know him content and sated. So he does his best, sliding down further with his exploring lips, biting lightly at Nomad’s collarbone, and falling still, to suckle at his nipple, hands caressing the planes and dips of his toned abdomen.   
  
It’s a treasure to be able to take his time exploring Nomad’s body like that; they’ve always been out of time, out of occasions.   
  
Nomad reciprocates, moving languidly against him, body accommodating his touches, his movements; he gently adjusts his body so Prophet can reach him however he please, while his hands roam: on Prophet’s shoulders first, then on his back, the muscles there moving underneath his fingertips in a way that is almost mesmerizing. He wants more still, though, so he lets his arms come ‘round Prophet’s frame, hands drawing back, gliding on his biceps and down his chest, palms splayed against his pectorals, fingers groping the skin there, and Prophet cannot help but let out a grunt, as Nomad’s nimble fingers dig into his skin pleasantly.   
  
They ripple like waves on the foreshore, accommodating one another, when another voice rises into the darkness; this time, Prophet has no problem recognizing it «I see you’re having fun without me» the tone so intimate that Prophet really doesn’t have to dig too far to know whom it belongs to; «Psycho» exhales Nomad, before Prophet can breathe the name, shifting away from the other’s embrace to raise to his feet.   
  
Nomad meets Psycho halfway, and they share a passionate kiss that speaks of trust, of love; Psycho licks the inside of Nomad’s mouth, relishing in the taste, while Nomad holds Psycho’s hips flush against his own. They grind against each other, spurring each other on «You’re so sweet, love» drawls Psycho, just before leaning his head forward to bite on Nomad’s shoulder, causing Nomad to let out a strangled high-pitched moan.   
  
Prophet thinks this is the best happiness he has ever had.   
So he watches intently, eyes focused on the two before him, trying to sear the scene in his mind; he wishes he could brand, with fire and steel, the details in his brain tissue: the lineaments, the fluid movements, the sounds.   
Prophet never wants to forget, never wants to leave.   
  
Psycho bends forward, lapping at Nomad’s chest, drawing one of his exposed nipples into his mouth, biting down on it, licking it and twisting it in his fingers viciously; it’s both pleasure and pain, and it has Nomad winding his arms around Psycho’s head, to keep him there, while he throws his head back, arching into the bites, into the caresses, with no remorse, no reigns.   
  
Prophet can feel his lust ignite, cock growing harder, irises fixated, unable to look away; Nomad notices, and turns his face towards him, looks back at him, cheeks flushed and lips parted, little moans escaping his vocal chords, no coherent words attached to them.   
  
They find comfort in their interlocked gazes for a second, before Nomad’s extending his hand in an invitation and Prophet cannot refuse it; before his conscious mind can even process the action, Prophet’s scrambling to his feet, grasping at that hand, pulling Nomad, and Psycho with him, down.   
  
They tumble on the floor, but Prophet catches both; they end up a messy heap on the mattress, but they don’t care much.   
  
As their bodies grow hotter, clothes uncomfortable, sweat sticking the fabric to their clammy skin, nerves too sensitive to tolerate the coarse rub of fibre, their movements grow more and more frantic, desperate; they tug at each other’s night garments until they lay fully naked on top of each other.   
  
It’s perfect. It’s communion, and they want it, crave it, yearn for it when they don’t have it.   
  
Mouths on skin, open palms and searching fingers, strokes hurried but no less gentle; the air vibrates with their joint groans, and it’s getting harder to breathe normally as hunger turns oxygen into fluid in their lungs, atmosphere thick and heavy around them.

It’s both a second and an eternity.   
  
Until Psycho’s biting down on Prophet’s neck, nibbling at the skin there, as Prophet lays impotent and takes it, Nomad in turn exploring with his wicked tongue the hard planes of Prophet’s abdomen, reaching downward and sinking still, until his parted lips are aligned with the other’s swollen cock.   
  
Prophet cannot suppress a guttural moan, as Nomad’s breath hits his member.   
It’s nothing, though, compared to the feel of Nomad’s mouth wrapping around his cock; it sends jolts of electricity down Prophet’s spine, and he arches, unable to catch himself, body thrusting into the tight, wet, heat of Nomad’s throat.   
Nomad gags but takes it without complain; withdraws a little, swirls his tongue around Prophet’s cock, tracing the underside with all the little veins with the tip, fingers grabbing at the base and squeezing deliciously.   
  
Prophet’s senses are lost in the moment, hands reaching blindly to card through Nomad’s short, dark hair, tugging at the strands and drawing little sounds from him, the vibrations reverberating on his member; it’s heaven, Prophet thinks, the only coherent idea that he manages to formulate, then Nomad hollows his pretty cheeks and sucks hard, and Prophet falls over the edge.   
  
«Such a sight, you make, sweetheart» joins Psycho, who is simply watching, petting at Prophet’s skin wherever he can reach, guiding him through the pleasure; at those words, Prophet straightens, rights his neck and directs his gaze down, because he _has to see.  
_ What presents in front of him almost makes him come immediately: Nomad’s a wonderful sight, pale skin splotched with a deep red flush, dark hair tousled, nose buried in the short coarse hair of Prophet’s crotch, eyes half lidded and pupils blown so wide by lust that his brown irises have almost completely disappeared; his strong cheekbones jut out whenever he sucks, body twisted in an odd angle, perspiration trickling down his glistening skin.   
  
Prophet groans unable to hold on, coming inside Nomad’s mouth with a shout, while Psycho whistles low, turning away from his companions to grab at the darkness; when he twists back, he hold a small bottle of clear lube in his hand, free fingers eagerly opening the cap and squeezing the liquid onto Nomad’s skin.   
  
Nomad swallows as best as he can, some of Prophet’s seed falling from his open lips and dripping from his chin, then recoils when the cold fluid comes into contact with his heated skin; however the discomfort doesn’t last long: soon both Prophet and Psycho’s hands join in, rubbing and touching, turning the lube from icy to warm.  
  
Fingers smoothly run down his spine, making Nomad shiver, sliding into the crack of his ass with ease, teasing at his hole, before plunging inside; Nomad keens, arches and his knees give out from the sudden pleasure.   
He doesn’t fall forward only because Prophet and Psycho grab at him, pulling him into their joint embrace; they lay like that, on their sides, Nomad sandwiched between the other two, while they fondle him, stretching him carefully, fingers crooking inside, scissoring and searching.   
  
When they hit his prostate, Nomad loses it, body twitching uncontrollably, a continuous current of pleasure overloading his nerve endings and sending his brain into overdrive; they hit it a few more times, making Nomad almost lose his sanity but careful not to send him tumbling down into his orgasm, before they give him pause, a moment to regain his bearings.   
  
Nomad curls around Psycho’s body, Prophet reaching for them, to give their neglected companion some love; Nomad movements are sluggish as he turns, moves away, latching onto Psycho’s back and nipping at his nape, just as Prophet takes his place, taking Psycho’s leaking cock in hand while they share a passionate kiss, lips parted and tongues meeting halfway in a wet stroke.  
  
It’s Nomad’s turn, this time, to grab at the bottle of lube; he squeezes some onto his fingers, rubbing his hands together to heat the fluid, and while Prophet’s busy pumping Psycho’s cock dry, peppering his chin and neck with kisses, Nomad’s fingers deftly trace the outline of Psycho’s vertebrae, scraping at the bones, grabbing at the muscles until they reach the bottom of his back, where they stop for a second, gripping at Psycho’s ass, parting his cheeks, fingers then slipping past, sinking into him with no hesitation.   
  
Psycho isn’t shy, and lets his companions know just how much he likes it, voice raising and falling in time with the waves of pleasure and desire wracking him «Nomad, gods…Prophet!» he manages to formulate, coherent words swallowed by a wanton moan right after, as Nomad’s touches hit his special spot inside; Prophet chuckles, the hand on Psycho’s cock twisting, his free digits coming up to pinch one of Psycho’s nipples, teeth biting down on his collarbone, just as Nomad’s mouth kisses his shoulder before biting down, suckling at the offended spot immediately after.   
  
It’s way too much, and Psycho’s sent over the edge, coming with a shout all over his own stomach; «Damn» he exhales, out of breath, as he rides out the orgasm, Nomad’s withdrawing fingers that send sparks of delight throughout his nerves, now raw and sensitive.   
  
They lay there for a second, before Psycho’s pulling Nomad in between them again «You’re the only one who hasn’t come, love» he states, before shooting an eloquent glance at Prophet over Nomad’s head; in that single moment, Prophet’s desire comes back to life with full force, his cock twitching with interest, staring to get hard again, Psycho’s own member responding in kind.   
Nomad’s lips stretch in a little smile, as he speaks, voice vibrating with anticipation «Come, then» is all he says, tone dripping craving laced with firmness, as if they were still on the battlefield but making love nonetheless; and how could Prophet and Psycho deny such an order?   
  
Prophet’s cock is the first to breach Nomad’s hole, and although Nomad had been prepared carefully, a grimace still paints himself on Nomad’s otherwise relaxed face; at that sight, Prophet stills, lets Nomad get used to the size of his girth.   
  
It’s only when Nomad nods, that Prophet resumes, carefully sinking into him, tight walls spasming around him at every push; Prophet bottoms out and Nomad emits a drawled out mewl that has both Psycho and Prophet worried, until ecstasy delineates on Nomad expression and they understand it’s rapture, not pain, that is making Nomad so loud.   
  
Nomad’s so full, so content, that he lets out a full laugh «Move» he commands, and Prophet obliges.   
  
_More, please._ Nomad pleads, and he is so fucking gorgeous, that Prophet would give him the world if only it could make him so content like he is right now.   
  
Psycho is enraptured in kind, as he hold his own erection against Nomad’s, grinding them together, shoving their members one against the other, wringing pleasure from the contact; they thrust in unison, moving like one single being, so in synch that fulfilment is not shared, but amplified, multiplied in between them.   
  
They reach climax in same instant, and it’s marvellous, as if they’d had a glimpse of heaven’s doors.   
  
They can’t have enough, as they kiss, and kiss and kiss forever into the night.   
  
However, it’s soon clear that Nomad won’t be satisfied only by one round, so they switch around, and this time it’s Psycho who penetrates deep into Nomad’s abused hole, while Prophet’s claims Psycho’s own for himself.   
  
It’s pure desire, unadulterated, untainted, and they get high on it.   
  
_Please._ It can be heard, more a prayer that a plea.   
_Please give this to me. Forever.  
_ It gives Prophet’s life a sense, this love, it gives him purpose, to come back home to them, to know them safe under his own command.   
  
He is the best version of himself only because they need him to be.   
_It doesn’t matter what it costs me, but please, take from me and leave them safe and sound.  
_ It’s all he manages to contemplate, as he falls all over again, climax hitting him like a bullet, overloading his senses so much that, for a split second, he is blind.   
There is only oblivion.   
  
He feels so full.   
So _human.  
_  
But sadly, it lasts but a second; when he comes down from the high his lungs start to burn, his breath not coming back to him, chest constricting and knot forming again in his ribcage, blocking his oesophagus, contentment turning fast into terror, as his brain screams at his body to breathe in vain.   
  
_He is dying._  
Prophet realizes in a split moment, epiphany coming all over him bitter and mournful.   
  
He opens his eyes, and it’s not dark anymore around him; the sky is overcast, covered in grey clouds illuminated by sparks of blue lightning, and around him there is only destruction: overturned concrete and crumbling skyscrapers extending endlessly ‘till the horizon, exposed metal, eaten by rush, everywhere, vegetation advancing without mercy, claiming that barren landscape devoid of life.   
  
_A dream._  
Prophet realizes, a pang of melancholy cancelling out every other emotion in his artificial heart.   
  
_Nomad’s dead and Psycho’s gone._  
And there is nothing Prophet can do to change that; maybe, just maybe, the oblivion C.E.L.L was offering him wasn’t such a bad thing.   
  
_Rest._  
At least, there, Prophet could’ve relished in those sweet dreams forever; he could’ve gained back everything he had lost.   
  
_But you still have a purpose, right? You sacrificed willingly, so I don’t think you really have the right to complain.  
  
_ Prophet rises to his feet, mind spinning, body still stunned by the fall, and realizes that those words are true: he would save the world this last time, and maybe, just maybe, then he could rest.   
  
_“I call your names but you're not around”._  
  



End file.
